


so just hold on to the memory of me

by bleuboxes



Category: Sanditon (TV 2019), Sanditon - Jane Austen
Genre: AU happy ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BUT HAPPY ENDING I PROMISE, F/M, Heartache, Mutual Pining, charlotte centric, kind of, she's growing okay, shes learning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23022907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bleuboxes/pseuds/bleuboxes
Summary: She presses the bruise once, brisk but hard. It hurts.It’s tangible, though. It will heal.OR: a broken promise, a year of healing, and the reconciliation.
Relationships: Charlotte Heywood/Sidney Parker
Comments: 30
Kudos: 136





	so just hold on to the memory of me

**Author's Note:**

> first and foremost: i watched this show in one day full on expecting my typical jane austen happy ending. needless to say i was VERY ANGEREd by the ending. justice for sidney and charlotte okay. OKAY. 
> 
> secondly: this was inspired by my bruised finger and the many other AMAZINg sanditon fics i have consumed in the past week. along with hozier, the new the aces song, "daydreaming" and other music and poems bc i am a romantic that loves suffering. 
> 
> thirdly: first time writing a piece like this so,,, my apologies. im also so freakin TIRED!!!! so there are probably mistakes. ill be back soon to make minor adjustments. i just need to get this shit POSTED okay. 
> 
> special thanks to my darling friend sequoia for telling me to write the last three sentences of this, which took me two hours when it should have taken ten minutes. 
> 
> anyway,,, without furth ado...

Charlotte isn’t sure how her knuckle has come to be such a pretty shade of purple; she’s enthralled by the swelling and by the yellow-purple hues that swim under her thin and tender flesh. She presses the bruise once, brisk but hard. It hurts.

It’s tangible, though.

It will heal.

* * *

In the fields on her family’s property, she allows herself brief moments of respite. When she’s alone, and away from the rest of her siblings, away from the worried glances of her mother, and the hushed whispers of her father and brothers, away from Alison’s pitiful silent looks, she sits among the long, amber grass and reflects.

She thinks of Mary and Tom, of Georgiana, of Arthur and Diana, of the children, of Mr Stringer, of Esther and Lord Babington, of Sidney and Mrs Campion. She thinks of her whole time in Sanditon; she plays with her bruised knuckle, which still hurts but has turned a gross shade of yellow. It’s still tender and sore, but it’s not broken. It will heal – _in time it will heal._

She will heal.

Healing, in her case, begins with reflecting on the good. Sanditon is the keeper of many of her fondest memories, of many of her firsts. It would be unfair for those things to be overshadowed by unfortunate circumstances and fresh heartbreak. It would not be fair to cut of the whole limb just for a little injury.

She looks out over the fields as she stands up and brushes off her dress. 

The birds fly overhead, chirping happily. Charlotte longs to be like that – to be free of these things that tether her to the ground, to this hurt. She wants to soar, unrestrained with others like her. She wishes to be her own again – to be free of the opinions of others, good or not.

That is not to say that she wants to forget.

* * *

She does more reading now than she did before.

Her mother remarks on it sometimes, and Charlotte knows that she should be spending more time helping out with the household, but she’s still trapped in her head.

She wants to read something new, something that will take her mind off the whole sordid idea of love, of potential engagements, of broken promises and loveless marriages. But, she finds herself reading and re-reading Heraclitus, thinking of him, how his fingers might have also tenderly graced the pages, how his fingers graced her own in the boat on the day of the regatta, how they graced her waist, traced the gentle line of her chin, held her face as he kissed her –

She slams the book shut loud enough to disturb her sister, Harriet, who looks up at her with a menacing glare.

She looks out the window, it’s still light enough for a short walk.

She gathers her wits about her, pushes a lock of hair out of her eyes, and exits the house in a hurry, trying not to cry.

* * *

She makes it to the stables, plops herself on the ground, leans against one of the posts, and tries her best not to scream.

She doesn’t.

Instead, what comes out is a sob four weeks in the making. She hasn’t cried since that day in the carriage, but it comes spilling out now – unbridled and ugly. She feels like a little girl, like every nasty thing Mrs Campion said that she was – a poor country girl, a foolish, fickle thing, a _child_.

Charlotte knows she’s none of those things – she is a person, a person just like anyone else who has had to deal with something horrible, an intangible wound. She is not unfeeling. He loves her – _he loves her._

He was going to ask her to marry him –

She could have been _so happy_ right now –

She can’t breathe under the weight of it; she understands, of course, that he had no choice but to marry Mrs Campion. She knows it hurt him just as much, if not more, to tell Charlotte of his engagement, knowing full well that he had endured the same sort of heartache.

It doesn’t make it easier, but she holds on to hope that he is suffering as much as herself; at least she has the chance to move on. He has had to endure this sort of thing twice. 

She hiccups, choking on her cries.

She holds her bruised knuckle up to the fading light, and touches it, hoping that it hurts, that she can feel something real. Instead, she’s greeted with the last remnants of a fading bruise; the color is the only evidence of an internal wound.

She sobs again.

Her mother finds her ten minutes later. Mrs Heywood gathers her eldest daughter in her arms as Charlotte tries to stop crying, _“He loved me, Mama. He loves me.”_

“I know, darling. I know.”

* * *

Another month passes. Charlotte is considerably less afflicted. She gets a few letters from Georgiana and Mary, one detailing how boring Sanditon is without her, the other wishing that she would come back soon, for the children do miss her so.

There is not a word about a Mister Sidney Parker or a Mrs Campion. 

Perhaps that’s for the best.

In the meantime, Charlotte does more work, laughs more often with her sisters, hunts and shoots with a vengeance previously unknown to her. She writes back frankly to Georgiana, who Charlotte thinks will understand what pain she feels and might be able to offer advice on how to recover from it. She writes back to Mary, addressing how she misses the children too, and how she hopes to visit Sanditon again soon.

She writes that as a curtesy, really, but finds that she actually means it.

Maybe this is growth.

* * *

That is not to say that Charlotte is changed. 

She is still optimistic, outspoken, stubborn, and kind. There’s something in her now that’s hatched, like a baby bird – finally breaking free are unbridled passion and perhaps acceptance.

She knows that she will always hold a special place in her heart for Sidney Parker – he was, and perhaps, still is, very dear to her. And while what she’s gone through in regard to him had a rather unexpected and cruel outcome, she is only able to think fondly on the past, on how she came to love him and how he came to love her.

At the same time, she does not think of everyone so kindly. She sees the grey in between it all. Tom Parker is kind and lofty, but sometimes his loftiness makes him cruel and selfish. She thinks of Mrs Campion; Charlotte has moved on from hating the woman to pitying her – to be so unkind to strangers, to people who have less than you, and to take what you can from them – it is clear she has a void to fill. To be so unloved, to be cared for so little that she must take it from others, Charlotte cannot fathom living in such a world. Mrs Campion believed she could fill her void with the memory of a man who once loved her. Charlotte doubts that she was able to. 

She wonders if she’s happy, sometimes.

She wonders if Sidney is happy.

* * *

She hopes he is.

* * *

A year passes. What had been damaged in the fire, has, as Mary writes, been rebuilt, and the Parkers would be happy to have Charlotte again for the grand re-opening. She finds herself wanting to go, not even minding the prospect of running into Sidney Parker again. She relishes the chance of seeing Georgiana and Mary and the children.

She tells her father as much, when he says she’s able to attend, as long as she feels she’s able. He’s clearly worried about her affliction. She rubs the once-bruised knuckle, and smiles.

“I’ll be fine, Papa. I’m looking forward to seeing my friends again.”

“Very well.”

She gives him a kiss on the cheek, and clasps both of his hands in her own.

“ _Thank you_.”

* * *

The Parkers are pleased to hear Charlotte will be returning to Sanditon, and kindly send a carriage for her. Before she knows it, she’s on her way back to town — smile on her face, and just as eager to visit as she was the first time, even if she does already know what awaits her.

Mary and Tom greet her with enthusiasm. The children barrage her with love, and Charlotte can’t help but peel over in laughter at the assault.

“I missed you all too,” she says fondly.

Mary soon rushes them all inside, the children run off to go cause a ruckus elsewhere. In the meantime, Mary treats Charlotte to a walk along the shore, filling her in on what’s been happening in town since she’s been here last. There’s a lot about labor, Tom, Mr Stringer’s blossoming career in architecture, Georgiana’s new friendship with Lady Babington, and other small, less important (but still notable) gossips.

There is nothing regarding her younger brother-in-law.

Charlotte swallows her disappointment with relief.

* * *

The grand opening isn’t for another week. Charlotte bides her time playing with the children, calling upon Georgiana, walking, and getting called upon by Lady Babington (or Esther, as Charlotte has been asked to call her).

Her time is filled with laughter and she sparsely has a moment to think about the young Mr Parker.

She writes to her sister Alison of her time here, but she notes her apprehension of the possibility of seeing Sidney Parker again. Part of her wants to see him miserable, to have confirmation of his suffering would make her feel some sort of vile satisfaction, but mostly, she hopes he’s happy. If she can see that he’s happy then she can truly get along with her life.

* * *

It’s a Thursday, when she sees him.

It’s a beautiful sunny Thursday; she’s walking along the hills near the road to town, book under her arm as she makes her way back from the beach where she sees a horse quickly approaching. She doesn’t really pay it any mind, just does her best to get out of the way.

She hums a little tune under her breath, taking in the scenery, admiring the sea birds that flutter overhead, and she lets out a little breathy laugh. 

If she was truly alone, she might have even done a little spin – feeling like this, free, unrestrained after so long, is a welcome change.

She listens to the crashing of waves, the calls of the birds, and the _clop-clop_ of the horse as it approaches. Then, she observes the sudden lack of clopping as the horse stops beside her.

She looks up, and there he is –

“Mr Parker,” she says, eyes growing wide in surprise.

He is barely changed. He has the same strong, handsome face as he had before, still is just as tall and muscular as he was a year ago, still has the same defiant but tender look in his eyes; he still looks the man she fell in love with.

But there’s something else there – something akin to sadness and a twinge of something else that she dares not recognize as hope.

Her heart buckles.

She will not falter.

He looks just as shocked as she does – which, itself, is a surprise; he’s always kept his thoughts and feelings under wraps. Even when he was candid with her about his feelings, it was if he was trying to contain them – even if little bits of him were popping through the seams.

She’s glad to see that she was able to catch him by surprise.

“Miss Heywood,” he greets her, voice tense, “You look well.”

“Thank you; as do you, sir.”

Charlotte keeps looking at him, no matter how desperately she wishes to look at her feet and crumple into a ball. Instead, she clutches the book close to her chest.

They are silent for a moment, Charlotte shifts the weight from her left to right leg as Sidney Parker looks her over once more in what she believes he must gather to be a discrete manner.

Her cheeks color, and he must notice, for it is at that moment that he makes an excuse to leave – something about meeting his friends in town.

She bids him farewell with a smile and watches him and his horse gallop off.

She stands there for a minute: just a girl, the birds, the sea, and the grass.

She wishes that could be enough. 

She knows it won’t ever be enough.

* * *

The grand opening is not until Saturday.

Charlotte spends her afternoon in the company of Georgiana and Esther She tells them of her encounter during her walk, and the two ladies do their best to advise and comfort her. They talk of the grand opening, and the ball that is to follow it – they all try to guess who will be in attendance and do their best at imitating the guests.

That evening, she makes her way back to the house.

She is late; and picks up a left over roll in the kitchen before making her way up to her room. Undisturbed, she readies herself for bed, lies down and falls into a blissful slumber.

* * *

She awakes the next morning to muffled shouts and laughter and to the sun peeking through the cracks in the drapes. She stretches, and, with a smile, sits up.

The noise continues.

She gets out of bed and dresses herself, once again humming a happy tune.

Today will be good – despite everything.

She can feel it.

She’s so caught up in her splendor that she accidentally runs into the door frame of her room – she lets out an indignant shout, and hobbles back to her bed to sit. After a minute, she again attempts to exit her room. She is met with success – thank goodness she’s not majorly injured. Her poor little toe is probably bruised to the dickens, and dancing tomorrow evening will be vastly uncomfortable, but it’s nothing she hasn’t dealt with before.

She’s halfway down the stairs when the shouting stops, and she hears the front door close. She still hears Mary chattering with the children and comes upon them once she enters the sitting room.

Mary bids her good morning, then tells her that she just missed Sidney – he had some errands to run with Tom today – last minute preparations and such, but they’ll both be back for dinner.

“Oh, how lovely – will Mrs. Parker be joining us as well?”

Charlotte’s tongue gets the better of her, and she regrets saying anything at all when she sees the blanche look upon Mary’s face.

“Forgive me,” Charlotte says quickly, but before she can elaborate on her impertinence, Mary responds.

“Dear Charlotte, did you not know? There is no Mrs. Parker; Sidney and Mrs Campion were not able to wed.”

* * *

“You truly did not know?” Georgiana asks on their walk – they’re back in the forest, surrounded by the brilliant purple blossoms.

“I had no idea – I,” she lies back, looking at the canopy of green above her head, “I had not allowed myself to hope, and he did not write! Nor did you or anyone else write of it to me! Knowing would have changed everything —”

She pauses for a moment. Georgiana’s hand finds her own and she gives it a slight squeeze.

“Our suffering would not have been so profuse. Happiness could have been within our grasp. Oh, _Georgiana_! Why did he not write?”

“Mrs Campion was engaged in some scandal – which I do not know the particulars of so I cannot speak of it; but I had observed him writing a letter to you – he even asked me to proof one for him just four months ago! I assumed he had sent it.”

Charlotte sits up suddenly, and looks at her friend, “You must tell me what it said, if you have any recollection.”

“He had written briefly about the scandal that befell Mrs Campion, and how he was sorry he was not able to write sooner. There was some part about how he managed to secure the money his brother needed, but I skimmed over that part –

“Georgiana –“

“If you are worried that he does not still love you, do not fret – he loves you ardently. However, within that declaration he said he understands if you have grown to hate him – for he surely hates himself for doing to you what Mrs Campion did to him.”

Charlotte brings her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry. Georgiana sits up and hugs her friend.

“I do not hate him – Lord knows I have tried, but I do not. I cannot.”

Georgiana holds her closer.

“What he did was necessary, and I understand. He did not have a choice then, but he has one now – Georgiana, I do not hate him. _I do not_ ,” she cries desperately – with longing, with hope.

“I know.”

* * *

She attends dinner. She and Sidney are seated next to each other and exchange pleasantries. If Charlotte is more pleasant and happy than usual, no one remarks on it. She reads for a bit in the sitting room while Mary sews and Tom and Sidney talk business in the room over.

“Are you excited for tomorrow, Charlotte?” Mary asks.

“Very much so,” she responds with a smile just as Tom and Sidney enter the room, “I do hope you remember how much I love to dance.”

"I do, indded!" Mary responds.

Charlotte looks at Sidney, boldly, happily. He returns her expression with a soft glance and a smile. She stands up, and excuses herself, closing her book and leaving it on the nearby table. She works her way towards the stairs, but not before catching a glimpse of Sidney picking her book, looking at the cover, and letting out an amused sort of chuckle.

She shares a similar opinion of Heraclitus herself.

* * *

Sidney seeks her out at the grand opening the next day. She is with Georgiana and Esther when he interrupts their conversation to talk with her. The talk is short, but enjoyable. Georgiana keeps elbowing her slightly, and it takes all of Charlotte’s will power to stay composed.

He soon bids them farewell and turns to engage with someone else in conversation. Charlotte decides to be uncouth, and gracefully follows after him, quietly calling _Mr Parker_ once she reaches a manageable distance between them.

He turns around, evidently surprised.

“Mr Parker,” she smiles, suddenly forgetting all she wants to say –

“I do hope you’ll save me a dance at the ball tonight.”

She knows that’s entirely untoward and improper – and if it was anyone else, she’s sure there would be implications and consequences to such a request.

But it’s Sidney, and she’s met with nothing but mirth and laughter.

“It would be my pleasure, Miss Heywood.”

His friend Crowe comes in at this point to steal him away.

He doesn’t break her gaze as he's dragged across the floor, and she can’t help the giggle that emerges after she sees his bright, goofy grin.

* * *

She enters the ball in a blue gown, the color of faded forget-me-nots. Her hair is up tight, and she can’t wait to pull all the pins out and feel the needed relief when she returns home later.

Her toe aches as it's currently tightly squeezed into her matching blue dancing shoes. But the pain doesn’t bother her anymore – it will heal soon.

A minor inconvenience is worth all the joy that the evening of dancing will yield.

She socializes with her friends and with some strangers (some of which are turning into friends), and maybe drinks a little too much champagne.

She’ll dance it off.

She quite literally runs into Sidney Parker; she’s a little disoriented, but she covers it up well.

“Miss Heywood –“

“Mister Parker,” she says energetically, “I think that you owe me a dance.”

“I believe you are right; lead on, Miss Heywood.”

There is a nice waltz going on, and she stills when he places his hands upon her – she looks up at him, really looks at him – and notices that there’s a gloss of doubt over his eyes.

 _Oh, Sidney,_ she thinks. She gives him a soft look, trying to convey love and tenderness and forgiveness all at once. He returns her glance with a weary smile.

She can work with this.

The music carries them across the dance floor. She can tell he wants to say something to her, but he’s stopping himself. She’s growing antsy just thinking about it.

“Whatever it is you want to say, I will listen,” she says, “I have always listened.”

“I fear that you do not regard me in the way that you used to – I have wronged you, and I cannot forgive myself –"

“ _Sidney_ ,” she whispers, watches the way he stills at her use of his Christian name, “I have forgiven you.”

“You should not have.”

“Well, it is a good thing you are not in the business of telling me what I should and should not do!”

He laughs in earnest, then turns serious once more; he’s about to say something, but Charlotte does not let him speak.

“We can be serious tomorrow; for now, hold me. Dance with me like you did a year ago when you told me you loved me and wished to be with me.” 

He doesn’t say anything, just holds her close.

She closes her eyes, listens to the music, and dances.

**Author's Note:**

> thank u for reading!!! comments and kudos are the bee's knees!!!
> 
> also: made a spotify mix for these two, feel free to take a listen!!
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3S0wpaNJaDFwaMdvBc6Chs?si=yd3iR9vwSsibO0B48t_jTw


End file.
